Four Evil Words
by Dailenna
Summary: [Teensy bit of Royai] Hawkeye and Havoc are forced to instruct some groups of new recruits.


**Disclaimer:** FMA is not mine.

"**Four Evil Words**" by **Dailenna**

It had been a long day. A long, stressful day.

While the average day at work consisted of arriving at the office, signing papers, maybe some target practice, lunch, signing more papers, possibly a meeting or two, and then heading home, _this_ day was different. Why was it different? Good question. One which can be answered with four words:

"Training the new recruits."

What were those words?

"Training the new recruits?"

Why is everyone's first reaction to hearing that they have to perform this task always so identical? Wide-eyed and slack-jawed. In case you didn't hear the first two times, let's repeat them again.

"Training the new recruits."

Now this time, just for a little variation, let's put them into the contexts in which the phrase was uttered – all three times within a single minute, I assure you, then we can continue on with the point of our little anecdote.

* * *

A bare quarter of an hour into the work schedule of the day, the door belonging to the office of Roy Mustang and his faithful few opened wide. Fuhrer King Bradley strode into the office, hands clutched behind his back as he let a careful eye rove around the room. Just the one eye, that was, as the other was kept behind a pirate-like black eye-patch. 

The occupants of the room looked up from their work with some surprise, and all quickly got to their feet, saluting sharply with a "Fuhrer, sir!"

The Fuhrer beamed happily. He was for the most part an agreeable man – easy to please, at least. "Good morning men!" he said. "Ah, and woman," he added with a congenial smile towards Lieutenant Hawkeye. "I've a small request to ask of two of your soldiers, Colonel – I hope you don't mind?"

Colonel Mustang shook his head bemusedly. "No, sir, I'm sure any request you should make would be more than reasonable." It wasn't as though he had much of a choice, in any case.

"Very good," Furher Bradley replied, nodding along as though he had expected no less. He turned to look at the involved parties. "First Lieutenant Hawkeye, Second Lieutenant Havoc. Two of our instructors have resigned mid-year, and their classes have no-one to lead them right now. They're arms-related classes, and until we are able to find new permanent instructors you will be training the new recruits."

Not only the two Lieutenants, but the entire room suddenly became eerily quiet. The only sound was the muffled groan when the Colonel bit his own tongue to stop himself from taking back his permission. The other officers looked on in horror, and both Havoc and Hawkeye had frozen – Havoc held in place by his terror, and Hawkeye by the bolt of anxiety that coursed through her momentarily.

"Yes, sir," she finally answered for the both of them, unwilling to disobey the direct order. "When are we to begin?"

"Today. The recruits are being drilled in other specialities currently, but their armed training will begin in roughly one hour," Fuhrer Bradley explained. "You'll be expected to give them an introduction, and then start them on a rifle. You should know what is customary. Arrive at the shooting range before the recruits and keep them in line during the whole procedure. I'm sure that you'll have no problems."

With a wave and a smile – after passing over the official documentation he had been holding in one of the hands unwittingly concealed behind his back – he turned and left the office, closing the door behind him.

Havoc let out a whimper. "Training the new recruits?"

The grim silence continued before Mustang confirmed it. "Training the new recruits," he said in a resigned voice. He knew that he may be losing two of the best officers he had ever come across. "May God be with you both."

Havoc felt as though he could have cried then and there.

* * *

The one benefit of specialising in guns was that when the training groups came through, they were small. Not due to the weapon being out of favour – it was the one weapon that all military personnel were required to know how to use – but rather that weapon training of any kind was only done in small groups, so that the instructors could keep an eye on every person and be sure that no one was in danger of killing those around them. 

When the students made their way to the range only five minutes after Havoc and Hawkeye arrived, there were only twenty of them in total. It was a large group together, but when it came time to start, they'd be split up so that Havoc and Hawkeye could teach them separately.

_Well, first things first,_ Havoc thought. _Introductions._ "I'm Second Lieutenant Havoc, and this is First Lieutenant Hawkeye. We've been military gun specialists for six and eight years, respectively, and who-knows-how-long prior to enlistment. Your usual instructors have left" – the look Hawkeye was giving him illustrated that he shouldn't have made them aware of this piece of information – "so the First Lieutenant and I are temporarily in charge until some more permanent teachers are found."

The recruits before him seemed utterly nonchalant at facing this news. He could see one person scratching at their head, three staring at the ground and two at the ceiling, one with his hands in his pockets, and a female cadet picking at her nails.

"Do you have usual groups that you split into for training?" Hawkeye asked.

The silence that met her question was only ruined by the whispering and chuckling amongst a few of the students. Within a second Hawkeye's aptly named eyes latched onto the chatters.

"Unless you're answering my question, you will remain silent," she said sternly, and continued seamlessly. "If you aren't already grouped, we'll have to split you all up. Group one will come with me, and group two will go with Lieutenant Havoc." She then assigned a number to each person and directed Havoc to take his group to the other side of the shooting range.

As the others left, one or two sniggers went up, and a ruckus started as the two groups called across to each other, continuing the conversations they had begun earlier.

"Quiet now," Hawkeye snapped as Havoc and his group walked off. She felt oddly alone – too used to having a comrade, or at least Black Hayate by her side. In this case she had thought it would be best to leave him up in the office with Feury instead of having him romping about the shooting range. "How long have you been training for?"

"We're second years," someone called out.

"Second years, _Lieutenant_," she corrected. If they were in their second year, then that meant that they would have been taught the theory of a weapon, but would barely have touched one. The Fuhrer had said that they had only just started arms training, but he didn't say for how long. "How long have you been receiving projectile training?"

"One week, _Lieutenant_." The sarcastic reply came from her left, and produced a few snorts and one giggle from the other recruits. Someone known for their attitude? These people sounded almost like school children with the way that they were behaving.

Hawkeye looked levelly at the mischief maker. "Disrespecting an officer . . ? Very well," she told him, "you can sit back and observe your fellow students this week. Following their practice you'll run laps around the hall with me until I'm content that you've learnt to speak to an officer with respect, and _then_ we'll go through your shooting practice."

The man – and he was barely that – looked back at her with an insolent eye. "Yes, ma'am." Had he been intending to impress the other recruits with that? Hawkeye didn't know how they had made it to the second year of training already with these sorts of attitudes. Most of these people should have been kicked out or moulded into semi-decent human beings already.

The rest of the group had remained silent, but not the type of silence that Hawkeye could have hoped for – respectfully fearful – rather because they were all giving each other amused looks. She watched them for a moment until each and every eye had turned back to her. This was going to be worse than sitting in the office signing papers for a whole day.

"I assume that last week you were shown how to shoot a pistol," she said, and quickly noted the nod one person gave. She took one of the rifles off the rack of guns supplied and checked to make sure it was in good condition. "While I'm able to use pistols, I prefer a decent rifle, and that's what you'll be learning to use this week. I'll give a quick demonstration before you'll give it a try three at a time. When everyone's had at least one shot, then you can all try together." She wasn't about to let them all get up and try together first – if one person didn't know how to hold a gun they could end up shooting their own foot off, and it'd be easier for her to correct a mistake like that when there were fewer trying.

She set the rifle down momentarily to remove her jacket – in emergencies she was able to shoot with it, but the sleeves restricted her arm movement and it was more comfortable to not have it on – and almost jumped at the sound of a wolf whistle from behind her. Her head whipped around, eyes blazing, but every person wore an identical expression of innocence on their faces. Eerily enough, it seemed that Havoc's group, who were only just within hearing range, had gone silent as well.

Her voice was quiet when she spoke, but everyone heard her. "If that happens one more time, each and every one of you will be running around the hall until midnight, without breaks and without water."

It seemed that the message got through to some of them, because at least half of her group shuffled their feet around and stood up straighter.

Taking up the rifle again, she loaded it and turned to face the targets at the other end of the range. She cocked it, lifted it and aimed before blowing a hole through the head. She repeated the action several times, blowing holes through the heart, groin, shoulders and right kneecap, in turn.

When she faced the recruits again she could see a newfound respect in a few pairs of eyes – something to do with the fact that she hadn't been so much as an inch off the 'bullseyes' painted onto the dummies.

Hawkeye lowered her earmuffs, and they did likewise. "Those are the main areas you will aim for," she told them. "Of course if you're shooting with a rifle, it's much more likely that you'll be triple the distance away, if not more, and you'll still be expected to hit the mark dead on. This is the sort of work that snipers take on. But today is just so that you can get the feel of the gun."

A single hand raised into the air, and confused, Hawkeye allowed the fellow to speak. "Are you a professional sniper, Lieutenant?" he asked shakily, eyes still wide with amazement.

"When the job calls for it, yes.," she replied succinctly before turning back to the whole group. "I assume that you all know how to load a gun."

* * *

It was two hours and two bullet-related incidents later. The recruits whose fault it was were currently under the jurisdiction of someone else, and so Hawkeye had sent them off, seething at one, and trying not to hiss and spit at the other who was crying because it was all an accident. The victims were sent to the infirmary, one missing a toe, and the other merely in a case of severe shock. The rest of the lesson had run somewhat bumpily, and she was just glad to be rid of the terrors. 

Now she had to deal with the recruit in need of admonishment.

* * *

Two figures jogged around the building, a light sweat on one forehead, and a good imitation of the Niagara Falls on the other. They had been running for at least an hour now, and Hawkeye was amused by how long the smart-aleck was able to keep up the pace. Determination seemed to be his main driving factor. She had allowed their speed to dwindle to a jog only a few minutes ago, and yet it was now that he seemed to be falling behind the quickest. 

He had long given up trying to talk to her as they ran. Originally he had let out a few scathing comments on the effectiveness of women in the military – at which she had given a sadistic smile and quickened her pace, berating him for not keeping up – or he had made some slightly more personal jabs – which she replied to by getting him to walk on his hands for one lap per remark, even when he fell over – or even just tried to make conversation, which ultimately used up the precious air he was currently gulping down.

When eventually she brought the jog down to a walk and said "Alright, that's enough," he tottered along a few more steps and collapsed onto the ground. The sight in itself was refreshing to the still-standing Lieutenant.

"Don't forget that you still have to do your rifle training," Hawkeye said, walking past him towards the shooting range. Now that she didn't have to baby-sit ten novices, this might be a little easier.

She had to show him how to hold the rifle properly, and corrected him more than once afterwards – he kept dropping, exhausted from the jog.

"Come on, you can still use your arms," she told him. "It's not like you were walking on your hands for more than four of those laps – they're still functional."

* * *

When Hawkeye and Havoc met up with the others at the cafeteria, they were given a few pitiful stares. Hawkeye didn't know about her own appearance – although she knew she was still sweaty, and more than likely flushed, because those windows weren't letting in anywhere near enough of a breeze for her liking – but Havoc's lip was trembling, he was as close to the colour of snow that a human being can get, and there was a cut on his cheek that had coagulated into a stiff red lump of blood. 

Swallowing nervously, Falman, Feury and Breda took their seats without a word, trying not to stare at the other two for too long. Colonel Mustang was already sitting, fork playing idly with his mashed potatoes.

"And you're supposed to be doing this for the whole day . . ?" he asked, seeming somewhat disgruntled by his subordinates' ragged appearance.

"Another group after lunch," Hawkeye said, setting her tray of food down lightly.

A glance passed between the men. "Isn't there any way that you can escape? Someone else you could put up for the job?" Feury asked breathlessly, the fear unconcealed in his eyes.

The question itself was asked so desperately that Hawkeye couldn't help but feel suspicious. She eyes them warily. "Why? What do you want us for?"

"Nothing!" came the instant reply from all three men at once, all eyes remaining firmly on Hawkeye. They'd been privy to some of her tactics before, and knew her habit of unsettling a person, then following their gaze to trying and find clues as to the contents of their mind.

"You wouldn't happen to be able to get someone to take your place, could you?" Mustang asked, a bit less desperately than his men. "I'm sure Feury–"

"Please sir, don't drag me into this!"

"Falman–"

"It's not a part of my job description!"

"Breda–"

"I have to wash my hair . . ."

"I'm sure Major Armstrong will be glad to help out."

The man was blissfully absent – for the time being – and was thus unable to protest to Mustang's volunteering him for recruit-duty. Luckily for Armstrong's sake, Lieutenant Hawkeye's sense of honour stepped up for him.

"I'm sorry, sir, but the Fuhrer assigned the task to Havoc and I," she said. Havoc didn't seem thrilled by her assertion of responsibility. He had been perfectly pleased with the idea that someone else could take over for the afternoon, and that he might be able to get back to the beautifully peaceful paperwork on his desk.

The men looked at the two of them curiously, as though observing the fascinating anomalies before them. "So . . . it wasn't that bad, then?"

Havoc finally stilled his quivering lip for long enough to respond. "Snobs. Rich kids. Brats," he mumbled, eyes wide. "One accident, one near-accident, two brawls, three attempts at bribery, one person throwing stones at me, countless incidents of insolence, and . . ." – he cast a look at the Lieutenant before saying in hushed tones – "one person wolf-whistled at Hawkeye."

Sharp intakes of breath were heard all around the table – Hawkeye heard someone at the table behind her burst out laughing, then quickly muffle the sound, but that could have been a case of coincidental timing.

"And you're going again . . . why?" Breda asked. "Other than because you were told to – you've made that point clear to us already."

"I don't know!" Havoc wailed.

Rolling her eyes at him, Hawkeye was almost tempted to whack him over the back of the head with her bread roll. "Oh, get over it Havoc. It's just for a day – deal with it," she snapped. She didn't mind so much having to teach a second class. It had to be done, and afterwards she'd go home, collapse in bed and try to forget that it ever happened.

She wasn't so positive about that half an hour later.

* * *

"Point your damn gun towards the targets or I'm going to have to shoot you. You! Get back in line and wait your turn – only two at a time should be up the front. Stop harassing the other recruits and watch so that you know what to do in your turn! I don't care who the hell your father is – you've been sent here, and now you're going to shoot that target, no matter how much he earns! _And if you point your gun towards the other recruits one more time, I **am** going to shoot out your kneecaps, so aim that thing towards the targets already._ Get back here and wait until it's your turn! And – what!? If you two want to make-out, you can do it in your own time, _not now._" 

Regardless to say, Lieutenant Hawkeye was not a very happy person. Now, she was able to promise herself that when she got back to the office she wouldn't ever accept another class. After doing this, she should be allowed to retire, with enough of a compensation to last her until her great-grandchildren died.

She was five minutes away from cancelling the shooting practice and just making them run laps – which, truth be told, she should have done a half hour earlier, as soon as the recruits walked through the door – when someone tapped her on the shoulder, and she whipped around ready to sock the recruit in the jaw, whether they were male, female, five, or eighty years old.

It was Colonel Mustang.

She unclenched her fist quickly, so surprised that she didn't have time to be thankful that she didn't actually hit him.

"Sir!" she said with a salute.

"You need reinforcements?"

"I need an elephant tranquilliser."

"Ah," he said, nodding along sagely. "Well, if that's the truth I could go swap so that I'm helping Havoc, and Major Armstrong is helping you, if that's any good."

"I said an elephant _tranquilliser_, not an elephant," she told him, looking around to the recruits. Oh great, now two of the guys were trying to beat each other up. This was the third fight since they arrived. Somehow, Hawkeye got the feeling that the group she had had in the morning were the cream of the crop. This one? Well . . . it wouldn't be getting any 'produce of the year' awards, that was for sure.

Colonel Mustang took a step forwards. "Well, let's see if we can't straighten this lot out, at least." He cleared his throat and raised his voice so that if they stopped misbehaving, they might have been able to hear him. "Unless you listen to your instructor, you'll all be separated and made to do physical labour for the next week," he announced. The recruits paid no attention. "Unless you listen to _me_, you'll have to do physical labour for the next week with your pants on fire." Still no change in activities. "Commencing . . . now."

Colonel Mustang snapped his gloved fingers.

* * *

Havoc opened the office doors with such a sense of relief that he'd never felt before in this situation. Now the office was to be his haven of safety. If Armstrong hadn't come when he did, Havoc would have been a military shish-kebob. Literally – one of the delinquents had found where the bayonets were kept, and had used masking-tape to fix it to the end of a rifle when it didn't fit on by itself. 

But now that Armstrong had taken over, thus leaving nothing left for Havoc to do, Havoc had wandered his way back into the upper halls of Headquarters and was planning on spending his afternoon finding Mustang's secret stash of every liquor known to man, and convincing the others to ingest it all with him. That was the best possible afternoon he could imagine after such a day.

"Are you alright?" Breda asked, catching sight of his expression as he stepped into the room.

Havoc stumbled forwards. "Alcohol," he muttered, "to chase the memories away . . ."

It took all of two seconds of watching their comrade's shell-shocked face before all three of his workmates leapt towards Mustang's private 'filing' cabinet. Anyone who had been through the terror they knew they were about to hear of deserved a few tankards.

"Where's Hawkeye?" Falman asked, clearly worried that she hadn't made it out alive. With that last lot, who knew if she had? Havoc hadn't bothered looking before he had pelted out of the building.

Havoc was shrugging and accepting a shot glass of vodka when the doors opened again, and Hawkeye walked in, looking just as ragged as he felt. Her eyes caught onto the four of them sitting around a few bottles and glasses and she took the four strides it took to get to them before grabbing a bottle and pouring herself a glass.

"Here's to _never_ teaching recruits again," was the toast before all glasses went bottoms up and drained into the corresponding mouths.

* * *

And so it seems that here our day ends. The terrible day that all came about due to those horrific four words. 

Truth be told, that's not exactly how the day ended. That's only how the _afternoon_ ended. The day itself ended a short time after a decidedly sober Colonel stepped into his office to find five subordinates passed out on the ground around a pile of formerly filled bottles, and one puppy gallivanting about the room, climbing over the people on the floor.

Somehow, he managed to drive them all home, smirking at the way that each person's head lolled onto the shoulder of the person crammed into the car beside them, and chuckling at the idea of telling them that a drunk Feury had snuggled up to the officer beside him. Of course, it was only funny because the officer was male – Mustang had been careful to put Hawkeye in the front so that she wasn't crammed in the back with four drunk, unconscious men.

Hayate made the trip awkward by insisting on inspecting every nook and cranny of the vehicle. By the third time he attempted to go down and sniff at the accelerator, there was finally enough room in the back seat to put him over the divider and leave him there.

So each person was taken into their house – or rather, carried in and unceremoniously dropped onto the first bed-like apparatus – and the Colonel made his way home, wondering what the best part about the next day would be. Would it be that he was the only person in the office without a splitting headache, or telling Hawkeye that she talked in her sleep, and it didn't matter what she had said, because he thought she was hot, too?


End file.
